Pen & Paper - Volume 11 - 2020-2021

Editorial Board

Legare Charney, William Jacobs, Aidan Kavanaugh, Maggie Looby, Phoebe McCance, Dylan Phillips, Alex Renzulli, Ryley Tate-Padian

Editor-in-Chief: Sabine Wadadli Production & Layout

Legare Charney, Maggie Looby

Production Director: Phoebe McCance Art Director: Sabine Wadadli Advisers: Vincent O’Hara & Eric Snow

Art Consultant: Krissy Ponden

Pen & Paper, The Unquowa School’s literary-art magazine, is published annually and offers an outlet for students to share their literary and artistic talent.

Students in grades 5-8 submit photography, art, poetry, and other writing.

The magazine embraces the original mission of its founders while continually incorporating new ideas. The editorial, art, and production staff meet multiple times a week before and after school to realize the magazine. The literary and art sections of Pen & Paper are determined by accepted student submissions.

The placement of student work is determined by overall fit within the magazine’s thematic sections and the editorial staff’s standards of excellence. The editorial staff, invited to Pen & Paper by their teachers, focuses on writing their own work, selecting pieces for publication, and providing feedback for submissions. Expert editorial committee members reread selections to finalize the submissions. All pieces, writing and art, are made anonymous to the editorial committee, keeping the review process as objective as possible. The art staff links writing to illustration, pursues individual art projects, and designs the front and back covers. Finally, the production staff codes the writing and art submissions. They also organize and print submissions for review and advertise to the Upper School inviting peers to submit work for publication. Lastly, the production staff is charged with the final layout of the magazine.

The Pen & Paper staff wishes to thank all student contributors and our wonderful advisers for their unwavering support.

Cover Art: Phoebe McCance Working Late Digital photograph Grade 8

Pen & Paper Volume 11

2020-2021

The Unquowa School 981 Stratfield Road Fairfield, CT 06825 Tel. (203) 336-3801 www.unquowa.org

2020-2021 Pen & Paper Staff Photo by Jacqui Mudre

The mission of Pen & Paper magazine is to provide opportunities for students to embrace wonder and challenge themselves to freely express their imagination and passion for art and writing.

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Dedication This year’s issue of Pen & Paper is dedicated to our head of school, Sharon Lauer. Ms. Lauer has always been an avid supporter of our magazine, but this year more than ever, we want to thank her for keeping our school safely open during the pandemic. This fall, many schools remained shuttered, and students had to continue to learn remotely. However, Ms. Lauer worked tirelessly to open Unquowa’s doors, allowing us to attend in person while still complying with every COVID-guideline. While we’ve all learned to do things remotely, Pen & Paper would not have become what it is without students attending in-person classes. The value of us being together to write, create, and edit the works of this edition is priceless, and it is all possible because of her. Thank you, Ms. Lauer!

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Table of Contents (Bolded works denote artwork)

That Which is Natural Barking Up the Wrong Tree 32

by Robert Krueger Decompositon of an 34 Abnormality by Sabine Wadadli

10 Tangled by Phoebe McCance 12 Unearthing by Sabine Wadadli 13 Chiseled Heart by Alex Renzulli 14 Serenity by Clementine Thomson 15 Tranquility by Alex Renzulli

Fire in the Sky 36

by Jack Cushman Arrested Development

by Ryley Tate-Padian 37 Money Time by 38 Piper Carrillo-Foote The Cost by Lukas Keras 39

16 Moonshadow by Robert Krueger Under the Veil of Night

17 by Robert Krueger

In the Fold by Lukas Keras 39

18 Fighting the Current

by Phoebe McCance

19 Antiguan Bluffs by Maggie Looby 20 Hurrah, Hurrah by Dylan Phillips Green Tea Overhang

21 by Dylan Phillips

Stoking the Imagination 40

by Ryley Tate-Padian Cotton Candy Sky 41

by Alex Renzulli Beauty’s Edge 42

by Maggie Looby

Basking by Marianela Cardona 43 Sunshine Daydream

by Jack Cushman 43 Trapped in Reality 44

by Phoebe McCance

22 Fall Bloom by Saisha Ghai 23 La Vaca by Charlotte Roberts Rising Mountain

24 by Michael Jones

Snow Coat by Isabel Alfageme 45

25 Conestellation of Moss

by Dylan Phillips

26 The Creeping Cold by Lukas Keras Frostbitten Fruit

27 by Phoebe McCance

Healing Power 46

by Marianela Cardona Tundra Sunset 47

by Jack Cushman

Proud by Raleigh Simmonds 48

28 Skybound by Jaxon Hanson

Two People, In Love 49

by Karleigh Schmidt Daydreaming 50

by Scarlet Tanzer Technicolor

by Sabine Wadadli 51

29 Look Up by Coco Thomson A Moment in Time

30 by Ryley Tate-Padian Walking the Plank

31 by Ryley Tate-Padian 6

That Which is Made Birds of a Feather 78

by Alyssa Roberson

52 Chalk by Jaxon Hanson When Do I Become a Threat?

by Alyssa Roberson Silence is Betrayal 55 by Alyssa Roberson

Abstract by Aidan Kavanaugh 79 Studying my Face 80

by Chipili Dumbwizi A Girl Named Wesam 81

by Sabine Wadadli

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56 Lifestyle by Massimo Cacciatore

The Unconventional Cliche 82

by Sabine Wadadli Manual Sunset

by Scarlet Tanzer 84 In God’s Hands 85

by Phoebe McCance

57 Don’t Be Next by Teddy Kushel 58 Lost to Time by Owen Tolan 59 Entropy by Alex Renzulli 60 The Faceless Beast by Owen Tolan

Blood, White, and Blue 86

by Marianela Cardona

62 Airspace by Legare Charney Terminal Departure

Fusilli by Maggie Looby

64 by Matthew Henry Anto

Canvas by Maggie Looby 88

65 Stacks on Stacks by Jack Cushman

Hush by Isabel Alfageme 89 What We Need 90

by Tanyse Floyd

66 Goodbye by Ava Sylvestro 67 Sasco by Jaxon Hanson 68

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The 2% by Henry Cooper 91

Small Business Saturday

by Saisha Ghai

Spring Time, Transgender Time 92

by Amory Erenhouse

69 The Phoenix by Finn Parsons

Labels by Miranda Falk 93 Caged Within 94

by Phoebe McCance Imprisonment 95

by Aidan Kavanaugh

Trajectory of a Bullet

70 by Sabine Wadadli

71 Don’t Shoot by Madison Mitchell 72 The Spectator by Sabine Wadadli

The Mind by Aidan Kavanaugh 96

A Star has Fallen

73 by Everett Carrillo-Foote

Willfully Ignorant 97

by Alex Renzulli

to a Colonial Home 74 Ode

by Ryley Tate-Padian 75 All in a Day’s Work

by Everett Carrillo-Foote 76 Spin Cycle by Daniela Lujan

Termina by Matthew Henry Anto 98 The Great Divide 99

by Eloise Young Justice in Education 100

by Bryan Wilson

The Clothes Make the Person 77 by Henry Schwartz

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101

Where the Money Falls

by Aidan Kavanaugh

102 Plus Tax by Legare Charney 103 Beauty Within by Bea Zorub Here Come the Dogs

104 by Matthew Henry Anto Don’t Think it Can’t Happen Here

105 by Devin Kelly

Safety On, Safety Off

106 by Robert Krueger

107 The Misplacements

by William Jacobs 108 Colophon

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A Letter from the Editor Dear Reader,

As per everything, this year’s volume of Pen & Paper, our 11th, has been markedly different than normal. The quality of this collection of photos, stories, poems, and various artforms meets and exceeds the high standards of our predecessors, but the process to get here has been out of the ordinary. Our staff has been unable to attend our standard meetings throughout the months, either for editing or producing the works present in this issue. Nonetheless, these hurdles are some of the many aspects that make the finished work stand out from our previous publications. The art and writing were made by students who went above and beyond to bring about these pieces in their own time. For many of us, creating was one of the essential parts of quarantine and the tumultuous time that followed. Our wish is to produce artistry despite the situation to inspire our readers.

Though the work of the student editors has been integral to the polishing of this publication, none of this would have been possible without the help of our faculty advisors: Mr. O’Hara, Mr. Snow, and Mrs. Ponden. Besides the organization and general oversight of the staff, they have continuously shaped, improved, and guided our writing and other works throughout the years. We also have to recognize the support of our head of school, Ms. Lauer, who has advocated for and supported this magazine since its formation and is a truly integral part of our community. And finally, we have to thank everyone who wrote and edited this year’s edition. Many of the pieces included have activism intertwined with beauty, and this is because we believe that the highest possible form of human nature is using our voices to uplift others and cast light on hidden issues. The depth of creativity and knowledge, especially the knowledge that fuels these quiet protests, in our small school is what makes Pen & Paper the work of art that it is, and we hope that you enjoy reading these pages as much as we did in writing them.

Thank you, Sabine Wadadli and the Editorial Staff 9

Phoebe McCance Tangled Digital photograph Grade 8

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That Which is Natural

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Unearthing Sabine Wadadli Grade 8

The sculptor beholds the stone, Sees beauty, cracks, possibility.

Ideas swirl without pattern or scheme, And the chisel is lifted from the rough wooden table.

They chip away at the swirling planet, Phrases and sentences sent into the gloom.

The steady click of creation serves as a backdrop For the ode of odes.

Words are hand-selected, Plucked out of the abyss, Strung onto golden twine, A product of the impossibly-hanging blue marble in the sky.

The earth grows ever smaller, The unused letters scrambling to not be lost, But the writer is sure and steady– And what is left behind is art.

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Alex Renzulli Chiseled Heart Digital photograph Grade 8 13

Clementine Thomson Serenity Digital photograph Grade 7 14

Tranquility Alex Renzulli Grade 8

So serene, With birds in trees, And hills that roll into the sea, Crystal clear yet blue and green.

Where boats all float, And lines are cast, And waves all rock, and wind fills the mast.

And just aloft, Beyond the peak, A sunset holds her arms to reach, To spread her pink, And purple, And red, To softly sing the fish to bed, And let the birds lay down their heads.

So let the tide go up and seep, To slopes that wear the evergreens.

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Robert Krueger Moonshadow Digital photograph Grade 7 16

Under the Veil of Night Robert Krueger Grade 7

He escaped into the night, with only the moon to guide him, with all the dreadful memories to haunt him, with only his mother’s tender voice in his head to comfort him, with the soft wind that pierces through his ragged clothing.

The gentle soil becomes his bed, and the sun, his only warmth, and the trees, his protector, and the river, his compass.

And so he runs every night, everlasting land to be traveled, the journey of his lifetime, and with only the moon to guide him.

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Fighting the Current Phoebe McCance Grade 8

Fighting the pull of the current, I punched and punched, kicked and kicked, But all I touched was nothingness.

Anger consumed me as I realized, no matter what I did, There was no effect.

I was trapped with no way out, No way out of this cold place that had captured me.

I couldn’t tell which way was up, which way was down– I could see no light nor darkness.

All there was, was nothing.

My fighting made no difference, So I gave up.

I thought once I did, I would slowly drift down to the bottom of wherever I was, But I didn’t go anywhere, didn’t move.

I felt something closing in on me– Not a force or an object, but an emotion.

I couldn’t grasp what it was, Couldn’t decipher what was happening.

My head felt heavy, Filled with conflicting feelings, None of which I could release or use.

I was lost inside the ocean of my own head, forever.

Maggie Looby Antiguan Bluffs Digital photograph Grade 8 18

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Hurrah, Hurrah Dylan Phillips Grade 8

Workers hike through the morning dew, A constantly expanding mob Files into order, Dedicated employees, Each with distinct expertise.

They march under the blazing sun, Beneath the emerging constellations, Antennae directed to receive commands, Sinewy legs skittering over smooth stone, Atop vibrant blades.

They mock the thought of exhaustion, As they lift, walk, and scavenge without respite.

They provide for their monarch and for each other.

The tireless workers Of the ant colony.

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Dylan Phillips Green Tea Overhang Digital photograph Grade 8 21

Saisha Ghai Fall Bloom Nature installation Grade 6

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Charlotte Roberts La Vaca Digital illustration Grade 6 23

Michael Jones Rising Mountain Mixed media Grade 7 24

Dylan Phillips Constellation of Moss Digital photograph Grade 8 25

The Creeping Cold Lukas Keras Grade 7

The cold seeps through cracks in the walls, Quietly blankets vast fields, Creeps into the quiet forests, Washes frost over the grass, Lulls the pond to icy stillness, Pauses the metamorphosis of the butterflies, and Plucks the leaves off of trees.

The days grow shorter and the nights grow longer– Winter slows everything it touches.

Phoebe McCance Frostbitten Fruit Digital photograph Grade 8 26

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Jaxon Hanson Skybound Digital photograph Grade 8 28

Look Up Coco Thomson Grade 5

Remember when you would look for the good things and just automatically find what you were looking for and not have to sprint past the injustice of the words you heard and the things you saw and the peoples’ faces and the tears wasted on something we thought we fixed?

They rise up again not to look past but to look back to the things that happened and they rise to be seen to be heard to be acknowledged in the eyes of others.

And they look up up to the gods and get only rain in return.

The thunder claps back and lightning riots, but storms cannot bring back what you have already lost.

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A Moment in Time Ryley Tate-Padian Grade 8

A swing wavered in the wind, Moved with an eerie quietness That only exists in places accustomed to laughter.

An elderly man slowly walked toward it, Each step followed by a hesitant pause as he moved toward his past.

His silvered hair slowly darkened into a light auburn shade, His stubble faded into new skin.

His tired shape morphed into one of youthful strength.

A girl slowly approached from behind the oak that held the swing.

She had golden locks and a pale blue dress; Her smile left his mouth agape.

He was frozen, For it had been a very long time since he had seen it.

He moved toward her, Ready to hold her in his arms once again.

She gracefully sat on the swing, Untouched by time, unlike himself, Her appearance was only a figment of imagination, So desperately she hoped for him to regain this moment, So desperate he was to regain her.

She looked over her shoulder as if asking him a silent question.

He reached out and grasped her hand, And together, they disappeared.

Ryley Tate-Padian Walking the Plank Digital photograph Grade 8 30

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Robert Krueger Barking Up the Wrong Tree Digital photograph Grade 7 33

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Decomposition of an Abnormality a poem by

Sabine Wadali Grade 8

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Jack Cushman Fire in the Sky Digital photograph Grade 7 36

Arrested Development Ryley Tate-Padian Grade 8

In the field of lilies, No child felt sorrow, Nothing disrupted their frolicking and Optimism ran in their veins, Cautious adults watched them from afar, Intrigued by their games, but Not one of them dared to move any closer In fear that the their own Earnest mood would be contagious.

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Piper Carrillo-Foote Monkey Time Bean mosaic Grade 5 38

The Cost

Lukas Keras Grade 7 “Money doesn’t grow on trees,” A common saying, But false, nonetheless, As trees will keep on falling; Wood will sell; Buyers pay well; Death of the woods, Never delaying.

Lukas Keras In the Fold Oragami installation Grade 7 39

Stoking the Imagination Ryley Tate-Padian Grade 8

The fire Of an amber color Glowed within its confines, Warming not only the bodies, But the hearts of those surrounding, Enrapturing them as the flames gamboled And crackled frequently.

Listening to bygone tales, They all grew closer, Huddling around the hearth.

Most thought The fireplace was a Wondrous gathering point.

Only the children Could see it for what it was: Magic.

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Alex Renzulli Cotton Candy Sky Digital photograph Grade 8 41

Maggie Looby Beauty’s Edge Digital photograph Grade 8

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Basking

Marianela Cardona Grade 7

Hibiscus blooming golden daylight beaming down tropical dreamland

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Jack Cushman Sunshine Daydream Digital photograph Grade 7

Trapped in Reality Phoebe McCance Grade 8

As dawn turned into day, I saw her on her lawn, Limping her way to school.

I looked inside her fearful eyes; She looked lost, alone, and afraid.

I felt the way she always did, even as a little kid, The pain traveling up my face.

I sprinted, tried to get away, But I was locked inside a cage that wouldn’t let me go.

I screamed but was silenced, the quiet fencing me in.

I crashed back to reality, saw the girl staring at me, Wondering what was wrong.

And I knew- her pain - was more than anyone could take.

And she knew- her life- was not what she deserved.

Her hand-printed face and her blood-shot-eyes, Looked at me with a glimmer of surprise.

She asked if I had ever felt alone.

And I said- I knew - what her life was like at home.

And she said- she knew- she’d always feel alone.

So I brought her by the hand, To the land of life and wonder and grace.

We danced in the sunset.

We let out the darkness and our troubles rolled away.

We sat there in silence, Listening to the quiet, forgetting all the pain.

The crickets stopped chirping, And the moon stopped lurking, As we laid there on our own.

Ideas formed, and we knew we had to go.

We stood up and ran away, Leaving all the pain, The bad memories flowing away.

We didn’t even look back, Letting go of the past, Knowing everything was gone.

We ran out of the darkness into the the luminous glow of hope.

And I said- I knew- she’d never be alone.

And she said- she knew- she was never going home.

And we stayed- in the light- of our new found home.

Yes, we stayed- in the light- of our forever home.

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Isabel Alfageme Snow Coat Digital photograph Grade 7 45

Healing Power Marianela Cardona Grade 7

Glimmering forest, A pearl-tinted wonderland The towering heights of the trees look down on me, Coffee colored bark, coated with the pale frost, My footsteps sinking in the white sea, The pine needle freshness wafting through the air, The cold mist surrounding me completely, I breathe in, relieved, Escaping the pains from the past, I have found my healing, Finally still, And at peace.

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Jack Cushman Tundra Sunset Digital photograph Grade 7 47

Raleigh Simmonds Proud Illustration Grade 6

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Two People, In Love Karleigh Schmidt Grade 8

It should be simple enough.

Boy meets girl, and they will live happily ever after, But this time, it was boy meets boy.

Boy meets boy, and it starts easy.

Love is uncomplicated for them, Just remind each other how much you mean to each other, Easy.

Boy meets boy, and life gets tricky.

Keeping their appreciation for each other, In the safety of their own home, Never letting the outside world see their true identities.

Boy meets boy, and things get complex, Their families’ disapproval is enough to sabotage their happy ending.

Strangers stare, Strangers laugh, And strangers debate their rights on live television.

Boy meets boy, and the world hates them, People are blindfolded by masks of hate and refuse to take them off.

Their hateful hands punch, Mouths that once said “I love you” now spit at them.

Boy meets boy, and things get dangerous.

Their love is illegal in 71 countries, punishable by death in 11.

Why does the world hate them for expressing their love?

They ask, “Why is our love so wrong?”

But nobody answers.

All that is heard is the distant sound of being happy, But not in this life.

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Scarlet Tanzer Daydreaming Illustration Grade 6 50

TECHNICOLOR Sabine Wadadli Grade 8

Her dreams were never nightmares, and the nightmares she did have always ended with her drowning in a sea of stars, which was altogether not entirely unpleasant.

The journey of each night’s sleep was something to be cherished, never feared, though the darkness beyond her curtains made for an ominous and nebulous monster. For only in her mind could she ride a train such as that one, a train where the glass was made of honey, and one feather-light touch sent the whole thing up in a flurry of confectioners sugar. She leaned out the window then, the fog of white was no longer from the harmless powder but a cloudy mixture of sleet and snow and anger. The girl felt the dewdrops settle on her cheeks and did not shiver away from their ice-cold fingers; any sensation was better than none at all, and especially in a mind where the thought of water brought along a torrent of oceans and rivers and lakes and with them came more dreams. The streams were fountains of chocolate and molasses, and there was hope afloat in the depths. Swimming in them was floating through a canopy of trees all fashioned out of pale yellow deja-vu. When she breached the surface, the world spun and fragmented into nothing but a selection of glowing colors to be sorted like the cards of a thousand decks.

The entire universe was so simple then, so manageable, and the swirling demons that had tormented humanity for so long got lost in the shuffle. The chaos compressed and changed, and then the tributaries of light were quieted once again, folded into a handkerchief of thought that the girl kept in the wallet she kept tucked in her back pocket. She continuously marveled at the lack of beauty in the world. Her mind had indulged her creativity for far too long, and reality was nothing but a washed-out-mimicry that paled in comparison.

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Jaxon Hanson Chalk Digital photograph Grade 8 52

That Which Must Be Made

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Alyssa Roberson When Do I Become a Threat?

Multi media installation Grade 8 54

Silence is Betrayal Alyssa Roberson Grade 8

We march, We put our fists up, We yell for change, For equality, For someone to listen to us, But do they?

Do they hear us?

Do they hear us crying over the lost children, Fathers, Mothers, Brothers, Sisters, Everyone?

Do they really hear us?

What does it take for people to realize We. Are. Dying?

We are being taken away From our families, Our children, Those who need us.

When will they stop and think about it?

Really think about what they are taking away, Who they are affecting, Who they are hurting.

So we the people, Whatever color you are, Wherever you are, Put up your fist, Punch it up into the air and let it be known, “BLACK LIVES MATTER!”

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Massimo Cacciatore Lifestyle Digital photograph Grade 8 56

Don’t Be Next Teddy Kushel Grade 6

Jimi Hendrix, Barbiturates, That god is dead.

Bon Scott, Kurt Cobain, Heroin, Those gods are dead.

Michael Jackson, Propofol, That god is dead.

Whitney Houston, Cocaine, That god is dead.

Prince, Fentanyl, That god is dead.

Tom Petty, Juice WRLD, Oxycodone, Those gods are dead.

Don’t be next.

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Owen Tolan Lost to Time Digital photograph Grade 8

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Entropy

Alex Renzulli Grade 8

An old house sits at the top of a small mountain, a mess of

dilapidated wooden planks and vines inching up the walls, and greets people as if it is a long-lost friend. A lone wildflower dares to bloom upon the very same patch of grass, tens of feet above the rest of the land– a hill so high that only a select few dare to climb it. Each who did had the same realization: descending from the summit was more toilsome than reaching it.

Nonetheless, this old house waits silently, patiently on top of the

hill. When reaching the summit, it is easy to see there are no windows, and no light can overcome the gloom from within. Perhaps a minuscule amount might sneak in from the mouse hole in the bottom left of the door, but not enough to make an impact. Its door stands strong at the front of the house. Before walking in, a flight of stairs appears through the clouds of dust to greet the sunlight, the sunlight that’s there for less than a moment. With each step, the color dissolves from a red to a dull gray. The door, the handle, and the rusted bronze knocker plead to be utilized. When tapped, an ear-deafening shriek bursts out and the door quakes with pain. It rattles with fear and agony. Not willing to take it any longer, the door explodes open. Then all becomes silent once again.

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The Faceless Beast Owen Tolan Grade 8

The Bismarck sets sail once again, a ship so formidable the mention of its name strikes fear into the heart of captains. Dents and scorch marks cover its hull like the scars on a sperm whale’s head - signs of the hopeless struggle of its opposition. The crew of this goliath ship, blinded by ego, ignores all of the meager stones hurled by its opposition. As it leaves the dock, its massive engines barely keep the Bismarck moving. The moonlight reflects off of its steel hull, making its position visible for miles. The hum of the motors was the only thing penetrating the silence of a night on the open ocean. Only the captain himself and a few gunners were able to see the dazzling display of the night sky, letting them almost forget the terrible war they were fighting against their will.

As the months pass, the Bismarck still lumbers on - crew members leaving or joining, and the mechanical interior routinely cleaned, even while the exterior falls to rot. Barnacles now live on its tattered hull, and its paint fades to match the murky waters it never leaves. The ship, thought to be unsinkable, weakens.

Even so, as it drifts through the night, seen only when a stray beam of light casts a shadow of its unmistakable 8-inch guns of the ship’s main battery, it becomes a legend among fishermen and naval ships alike. Its location is as much a mystery as the origin of life itself of the crew on board.

Until its location is revealed, tiny blips on radar as ships speed towards it. A fleet of British ships, cruising through the inky water, gliding silently in stealth. The first shot is fired, bringing the calming silence of the open water to a screeching 60

halt with a barrage of flashing lights and explosions. The main battery cannon of the Bismarck roars, and the hum of mortars and the clanking of old machinery flood the air.

Then it fires, and the crew on the fleets of attacking ships are both amazed and terrified - frozen, as the flash of a single cannon shot appears to shine like the sun in the pitch of the night. The whistle of the approaching explosive soon ends this unwanted reverie, and the impact forces one ship to start taking on water.

So, too, does the Bismark.

Foolishly, the ego of the crew onboard prevents them from taking action, and they quickly win the fight and plan to return to dock for routine repairs. But this time is different.

The fleet of tiny ships outruns the Bismarck in its retreat the ship’s explosives not accurate enough to hit the approaching fleet. It begins to sink—first, the boiler room, then the cabins, as the water starts to rise faster. As the crew begins to realize the magnitude of the situation, it is too late. The hull takes on water.

The goliath ship sinks beneath the waves, ready to tango with the open blue below. All that is left is a flag, one of the horrors once past, slowly being claimed by the deep. The crew of this once-great ship, stranded for dead, now realizes their fate.

The Bismarck rests on the murky seabed, a grave of forgotten vessels and broken lives. As the hull of the ship is buried by shifting sands, the legend lives on - a faceless beast, eroded by time. The memory of this faded giant is lost, much like the thousands of soldiers among it.

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Legare Charney Airspace Digital photograph Grade 8 63

Terminal Departure Matthew Henry Anto Grade 7

The future, a world deprived life and freedom.

Where howling winds breathe extinction, And the sounds of the bells fade into crying sirens.

The mountains crumbled, The sandstorms covered all in dust; Leaving living things wheezing for breath, All remains of intelligent influence lost; Unrecoverable by their creators.

They’d become too befuddled by their small, short-sighted endeavors.

What followed was only death.

Humanity incapable of accepting reality.

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Jack Cushman Stacks on Stacks Mixed media Grade 7 65

Goodbye Ava Sylvestro Grade 5

I was playing basketball in the backyard. I knew Poppy had cancer. I just didn’t know how quickly things would escalate.

She shoots and she scores!

“Ava come on we’re going to see Poppy.”

This wasn’t that different for me. We went to my grandparents’ house every day. I would just watch TV while the grownups talked. I didn’t want to hear what they were saying anyway, and when I overheard, I would try to shut it out.

“Alright, let me just get a blanket.”

When I went upstairs to get my blanket, I realized I forgot to get some snacks since we would usually be there for a while. I slipped back down the stairs.

“This will be so hard for Ava.”

“I know but we’ll regret it if we don’t.”

“Regret what?” I asked.

They looked between one another.

“Poppy is just not feeling well,” my dad said.

I knew they were hiding something, but to be honest I didn’t want to know. Poppy had been sick for a while. He had cancer in his bones. He had it for fifteen years, but only in the past year did things get worse.

When we got to the little grey house, my stomach sank. Lea and Dave were there. Dave was Poppy’s brother, and that scared me. They were not usually there. It wasn’t very convenient for them to come. It was a half hour drive. I finally worked up the courage to say, “Tell me the truth - what’s going on?”

My mom was the first to speak. “Poppy only has a few days left.”

Breathing became impossible.

I couldn’t walk.

“No… NO!” I cried.

“We’re all going in to say goodbye to him. We think you should come.”

I slowly walked inside to the guest room downstairs. Then I saw the breathing tube. I ran out sobbing.

“Wait, Ava!’’

I couldn’t.

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“It’s ok– the breathing tube is just there to help him. It’s like…ice in your water. You don’t need it, but it’s better with it.”

I nodded.

As I walked in there, I promised myself that I would thank him for everything.

“Thank you. Thank you for driving me around in the Miada.

It was so much fun to drive around with the top down. Thank you for taking me to 16 Handles and letting me eat only the toppings and never getting mad. For always being there for me. I’ll miss you.

I promise I’ll share stories with Taylor. I’ll play the crack game with her, and I’ll love her and treat her with the kindness and respect that you treated me with. I don’t know what I’ll do without you.”

“I love you, Ava.”

Poppy died on the seventh of September, twenty-twenty, at one forty-seven a.m.

Jaxon Hanson Sasco Digital photograph Grade 8

Saisha Ghai Small Business Saturday Paint on canvas Grade 6 68

The Phoenix

Inspired by William Blake’s “The Tyger” Finn Parsons Grade 5

Phoenix! Phoenix! Shining bright In the midst of the night!

O what magic power or mind Could form this flaming deity?

In what far flame or fire Lit the spark of its desire?

In what ash did it birth?

In what temple? in what earth?

And what fingers, and how smart, Could forge the flame of thine heart?

And when thy heart began to spark Was it a sizzle or was it a bark?

What the feathers? What the beak?

In what mountain did it shriek?

What the ember? What the flame Did its deadly feathers claim?

Who gave this fearsome bird its tears?

And who gave to it its fears?

Did they who made the phoenix see Also birth the kraken in the sea?

Phoenix! Phoenix! Shining bright In the midst of the night!

What magic power or mind dare form this flaming deity?

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Trajectory of a Bullet Sabine Wadadli Mixed media installation Grade 8

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Don’t Shoot Madison Mitchell Watercolor, embroidery, paper Grade 7 71

The Spectator Sabine Wadadli Grade 8

Today, there was a spectator. A thing whose only purpose– a rather specific one– was to find people who still held onto their originality, which must be destroyed. Individuality was hope and hope was danger. The sea of umbrellas seemed to taunt the spectator, each one so similar yet so different from the person holding onto the curved end. The spectator carefully categorized each color, each pattern.

Black was safe. It was safe, normal, dull, boring. It was perfect. Or in this place where numbness was emotion and intelligence was risk, it was blinding genius. The yellows were on the brink of threat, as were the pinks and the oranges and the reds and even the greens. They were just bright enough to spark joy in the user, if there was any left. But since happiness was almost as dangerous as screaming dissent into the streets, this became more and more unlikely. The patterns, that was where the spectator focused all of its scrutinies.

The people with the patterns, especially the ones filled with color, those people fell into one of two categories. The first was people with such low income that they could not afford any umbrella but the ones from the ancient era. They too, were safe, since it was widely known that it would be more conspicuous to appear without one. That would be saying that they were capable of withstanding the elements, that they didn’t need manufactured goods to live their lives. And although this may be true, no one would ever dare say that a real jungle is better than a concrete one, or anything remotely similar. They were safe. But the spectator still watched.

The second type of patterned umbrealla people were ones who thought standing out was a good thing. Those people needed to be punished for their thoughts of freedom, of course, but also blatant stupidity. The way things go is that the different people were smart, they wanted to change things for the better.

They rebelled, they didn’t stand by. But the truth is that the peo72

ple who still thought a patterned umbrella would make any sort of difference needed to be stopped because they are the ones who prevented the advancement of society, with their useless morals and values.

Uniformity was the only form of identity.

Uniformity was the only form of identity.

Uniformity was the only form of identity.

Uniformity was the only form of identity.

The spectator knew this. It knew it so thoroughly that there was no other option. It knew this so thoroughly that any mercy it might have felt had perished long ago. So long ago that it seemed as if it was yesterday. Maybe it was. But no matter when, and no matter how, it was clear that any humanity it retained had died along with the rest of it, watching for a game in which the only prizes were quiet deaths.

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A Star Has Fallen Everett Carrillo-Foote Textile Grade 8

Ode to a Colonial Home Ryley Tate-Padian Grade 8

You sit there, sunrise to sunset, Patiently waiting to comfort me, An abode, sheltering me from the Fear and hate in the world, If I need to escape.

You hold memories of a lifetime, Times of lenity, times of dolor.

You are always there, Listening, never talking, Keeping secrets, Secrets which are kept.

At night, you keep watch As everybody, lies down for Their night’s slumber.

You let me scream with joy, And let me sob with regret.

You shelter me from winter storms, With a crackling fire, Warming my soul.

And in the summer heat, You cool me down with An ice cold glass of water.

Like the stars in the sky, You are always there.

And even though I will leave, You will always be remembered My home, sweet home.

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Everett Carrillo-Foote All in a Day’s Work Digital photograph Grade 8 75

Spin Cycle Daniela Lujan Grade 8

Laundry is so tedious.

Fold the clothes, Put them back in the closet, Repeat.

As I write this, unfolded clothes lay on my bed, waiting.

I might just leave them there for the night.

I only like laundry when it’s in the wash, Or when it’s in the dryer.

So much to do to fit in the norms of society.

People expect me to keep my clothes in the closet, Yet no one is coming over to see.

Maybe my laundry doesn’t want to be put in the closet, Doesn’t want to be folded– I should respect that.

Yes, my clothes don’t want to be cooped up all day and night in a small dark space.

I’ll put them away tomorrow.

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Henry Schwartz The Clothes Make the Person Found object sculpture Grade 7

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Alyssa Roberson Birds of a Feather Block print Grade 8 78

Abstract

Aidan Kavanaugh Grade 8

Color and shape float formlessly through infinity, colliding

and spiraling, an amorphous, shapeless, abstract eternity. Imagination and reality intertangle, intertwine, form overpowers function, thoughts freeze and thaw, meaning melts into its surroundings, its presence invisible for it has been absorbed by each line, image, and brushstroke it touches. The geometry, no longer content to remain in the space it occupies, runs rampant through the white savannah; silhouette soars off the page, reality fractures, and is rendered meaningless. All that remains of importance is the shifting, twisting, twirling symbols and symbolism. The bright explosions of light, the deep embrace of shadow, remain ever so subtle, while creativity and life call out to the enraptured eye, which, so overwhelmed, darts around the canvas, but never leaves. Fact shatters into fragments of ideas that glisten in rays of confusion and disorder and catch the eye of the inspired beholder. It is caged in a frame; and yet it appears to be tame; it is soundless, stationary, serene; And yet, despite being motionless, the chaos it captures is profoundly moving.

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Studying My Face

by Chipili Dumbwizi Grade 5

This nose is responsible For sniffing wonderful daisies On the plain fields While my beautiful hair dances Silently in the wind.

Dimples take shape With no shame As my cheeks feel the joy of my smile And my lips kiss the flower.

My bushy eyebrows Seem out of place There’s nothing to do about them Perfection was never the aim.

I’ve stayed silent and realized Their worth Among the land Of daisies and lace.

I say goodnight to this lovely world While I sing and spin As leaves and trees hum along To this melody that will never cease.

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Sabine Wadadli A Girl Named Wesam Pastel and watercolor Grade 8 81

The Unconventional Cliché Sabine Wadadli Grade 8

In “Cliché,” Billy Collins crafts an elaborate metaphor which likens his life to a book with its pages flung open; then he expands on it by drawing connections between different aspects of life and a work of literature. Throughout the poem, the speaker utilizes the first-person, causing the reader to be drawn into Collins’s experience from his perspective and notice how his poetically differs from their own. The phrasing used is also an integral part of the metaphor– his life is not just compared to a book but to an open book, not just a story but a story that all can see. The similarity between the two things has to do with the apparent visibility they share and the existence of a beginning, middle, and end in both (though Collins does not expand on the second shared quality). Right after his opening phrase, he adds imagery for the benefit of the reader by writing, “Its pages shamelessly exposed / Outspread like a bird with hundreds of thin paper wings” (2-3). These lines are a direct extension of the central metaphor but critical to the poem nonetheless. In this case, pages and the wings of a bird are meant to help the viewer understand that the speaker lives his life very openly.

The similarity between life in the public eye and a bird is that both are very visible and free. The author is living this “open book” cliché because he is a poet. Collins shares his very personal thoughts in the form of poetry, and due to this, he could sometimes be forced into disclosing things that he 82

may not have had he chosen another lifestyle. However, he also uses the word “shamelessly,” which suggests that he does not regret his decisions, although there may have been hardships.

In the seventh line of the work, Collins deepens the metaphor by writing, “Every reader must be a translator with a thick lexicon.” He compares the book’s readers to the people he interacts with every day: his friends, family, maybe even acquaintances that he meets and wants to get to know further.

However, like in the primary metaphor, the line does not stop at the superficial level. When a reader is trying to interpret and digest a problematic piece of literature, an extensive vocabulary and even a dictionary are essential things to have. By expanding the line to incorporate this image, Collins compares himself to that aforementioned challenge. It can be inferred that he considers himself very complex or difficult for others to know thoroughly. Later, the speaker reinforces this point by claiming that “Some have time only for the illustrations” (11), which occurs when the reader tires during a cumbersome read.

From this poem, the reader can conclude that the author employs figurative language to leave his perspective on life with them. He offers a unique viewpoint due to his career as a poet and his ability to work with language and reveal things viewers may not even know about themselves. Collins takes the cliché of an open book and makes it into something wholly original by enhancing and developing the metaphor and turning it into a piece related to his experience and those who have different ones.

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Scarlet Tanzer Manual Sunset Body art Grade 6 84

In God’s Hands

Phoebe McCance Grade 8

I had been stuck in the roof of my house for six hours, ter-

rified as there was no one in sight. My mother and brother went to the store to get milk just before the storm hit. I was reading in my bed when suddenly, the sky let out an evil crackle and used all its might to suck everyone and everything into the air without an ounce of guilt. I flew through the air, doing somersaults and bumping into other people, animals, and all kinds of objects that did not belong to the sky. Then, in a flash, I wasn’t flying anymore.

I dropped approximately two stories and landed waist-deep in a hole in our roof. I could feel the blood dripping from my feet and my arms losing strength, but there was nothing I could do. I was all alone with no idea where my mother and brother were or if they were okay. Six hours passed as I waited for someone to help me, remember me, protect me. But no one came. I lost feeling in my feet, and my arms were about to give way, but I knew I would not survive if I fell through the hole into the remains of my house. I begged my hands to hold on, through the tears streaming down my face.

“Someone will come,” I kept telling myself, though I did not believe it. I dug my fingernails into the rotting roof tiles, urging myself to trust that someone out there was shouting my name.

But when the seventh hour passed, and no one arrived, I suddenly could not fight anymore, could not hold on any longer. I lifted my arms and fell through the roof that once protected me. I fell for what seems like hours until finally, I landed in the warm palms of God’s hands.

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Marianella Cardona Blood, White, and Blue Multi media installation Grade 7 86

Fusilli Dissidents & Causes Maggie Looby Grade 8

You people like to say “You must wish you loved women.”

I like to respond by saying, “I wish love was easy.” Technically, it was. Anderson, my husband, was a serene, sweet, lovable man I

had the fortune to marry. He loved the news and staying informed about world affairs. The local news is a place people go to when they want information, yet no gay man ever said they wanted to know that others were being abused while walking home from work. That’s just life around here.

Each Tuesday evening, I would prepare pasta, Anderson’s

favorite. It isn’t my favorite food, but Anderson is my favorite person; I would do anything for him. That evening, I poured some wine and waited. And waited. To be fair, you never can understand what God has destined. Anderson opened the door, or at least that was what I thought. It wasn’t him; it was an officer. My hands trembled; it felt like walls caved in as I learned our fate, and the world went silent.

The news was all I could think about. Before anything could

be said at all, I sat and stared at the pasta. I never hated pasta so much. You know, I have a new response to those questioning if I love women. I damn wish I did.

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Maggie Looby Canvas Multi media installation Grade 8 88

Isabel Alfageme Hush Spine poem Grade 7 89

What We Need Tanyse Floyd Grade 6

Sometimes we are beaten With words Or With violence.

We need to be treated equally.

Sometimes we are harmed For no reason, By guns Or By hands.

We need to be treated equally.

Sometimes we are beaten With racism Or With sexism.

We need to be treated equally.

Sometimes we are judged by Race, Gender, Things that we do, Mistakes, Education, Looks, And for no reason.

Let’s all fight inequality together.

One should never fear standing up to fight That which is not right in this world.

We need to be treated equally.

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Henry Cooper The 2% Mixed media Grade 7 91

Spring Time, Transgender Time!

Amory Erenhouse Grade 6

During the springtime, Some people may enjoy a fresh lime.

Me on the other hand, I like soda that is canned.

One day, While witnessing a fender bender, I realized that I was transgender.

As I thought back over the years, I realized that all of the times I shed tears Were wrapped up in performative gender expressions.

(Which is a term I learned in therapy sessions.)

So I decided.

I am not comfortable as a boy.

I’ve always been a girl.

After doing a bit (and then some) of thinking, I tried not to bury all of my feelings; So I told my friends and my family, and they all… supported me.

One of my friends gave me a present this spring, and it was a beautiful rainbow ring.

After once being down in the dumps with the trash, I apply mascara to my eyelash.

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Miranda Falk Labels Block print Grade 6 93

Caged Within Performance Phoebe McCance Grade 8

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Imprisonment Aidan Kavanaugh Grade 8

Trapped in the cage, it waits.

Waiting for someone to care.

Someone to care about something.

Someone from anywhere.

Trapped in the cage, it grows hungry.

Feeding on displeasure and hate.

Hate for the system, displeasure in the injustice.

It has no time to wait.

Trapped in the cage, it grows restless.

Awakened by the roar of uprising.

People who will be silent no longer.

People who no longer are hiding.

Trapped in the cage, it grows bitter.

Stirred by people who dare.

People who dare to do something.

People from everywhere.

Bending the bars, Breaking the chains, Bellowing defiantly, We will not bear the pain of silence.

Standing triumphant, Someone will always fight the war.

Not bearing the silence.

Until in the cages there are no more.

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The Mind

Aidan Kavanaugh Grade 8

The mind is a bird, Majestic and ever traveling, but far from this earth.

Thought is the whispering wind Beautiful and profound, but intangible.

You are an oracle.

You will make the invisible clear.

Ready to speak the word of the mind, The song of your thoughts.

You are a sculptor.

The world is a mass of clay placed in your hand.

Your tools are your determination.

You are a painter.

The world is a canvas placed in front of you.

Your brush is your will.

Your paints are your hope for the world.

You are an architect, And you will build this world.

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Alex Renzulli Willfully Ignorant Mixed media Grade 8 97

Termina

Matthew Henry Anto Grade 7

Every day, the citizens of Termina felt the ground they

stood on grow increasingly weaker. Their climate was fraught with radiation storms and acid rain ever since the nuclear explosion that ended the great war hundreds of years ago. Every storm, each black cloud that loomed in the sky, threatened to disintegrate the country’s already failing infrastructure. People were rendered homeless as a result; forced to work in the aggressive, heavy labor camps and factories in the Rustlands, a region adjacent to the Ironlands, which was home to the government of Termina. It was an almost holy place due to the complete control of the Supremacist.

The Rustlandic Factories spewed grotesque black smoke into the sky and dumped silver-tinged bile into the few bodies of water that remained. More often than not, dead fish washed onto the shores of Rustlandic Lake, and the same metallic liquid would eventually rain down from the sky. Out of these factories, giant steel automatons known as Ceasators emerged. These government-issued robots kept the general populous in check, ensuring that all obeyed the laws. For these reasons, the citizens of Termina felt as if the very planet would soon collapse. They knew that their home was self-destructing, but the government of Termina kept them silent and compliant.

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Eloise Young The Great Divide Paint on canvas Grade 6 99

Bryan Wilson Justice in Education Paint, paper on wood Grade 7 100

Aidan Kavanaugh Where Fortune Falls Paint, nails on wood Grade 8 101

Legare Charney Plus Tax Mixed media Grade 8 102

Bea Zorub Beauty Within Mixed media Grade 8 103

Here Come the Dogs Matthew Henry Anto Grade 7

I was sure to be extra careful of my surroundings. I knew full well it was dangerous to be outside in the late evening. In the day, if you were considered suspicious, you would be caught by the secret police, who would find a slow and painful method of killing you tailored to your personal fears. At night, however, it was the dogs who would get you. Propaganda posters for the Autocratic party littered whatever destroyed structure or pile of boulders there were. They displayed all sorts of gruesome and cruel ways the Autocrats condemn the Libertines, their opposition.

There were pictures of ruptured skulls, gallows at capacity, and, of course, torsos in the mouths of vicious, beast-like hounds. It made me more conscious of the volume of my footsteps.

As I was nearing my living quarters, a deep, raspy snarl erupted from the rubble of what was once a building. It immediately stopped me in my tracks. A dark silhouette emerged. It must have been three times my size; the Autocrats bred them specifically to be as large and aggressive as possible. In the moonlight, the colossal cur took shape. A light flashed on its collar as it approached with hunger in its eyes. Too terrified to run away, I simply backed myself into another mound of the wreckage that was the result of the political conflict.

The number of growls increased. Those in the distance grew closer, hungry to kill. And then, there was a searing pain in my stomach, in my chest, and back.

And then, in no time, I was the one on the poster, plastered around the city.

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Devin Kelly Don’t Think it Can’t Happen Here Mixed media collage Grade 7 105

Robert Kreuger Safety On, Safety Off Mixed media installation Grade 7 106

The Misplacements William Jacobs Grade 8

The car screeched to a stop. Billy’s ears were ringing as his eyes opened and closed, getting slower and slower until he faded into an eternal sleep.

He opened his eyes - blinking lights colored blue and white overwhelming the sight. A large, black and purple portal was drawing him in from a distance. Suddenly, it faded out of sight and disappeared into the void. Billy found himself in a room just a few meters long. The room was white, showing no shadows. In the center of the room sat a large pedestal with a letter taped to the frame.

Instinctively, he touched one wall with the tip of his finger, and a blue portal appeared and started sucking him in. Billy jumped back in fright and embraced his finger as if it were the most important thing in the world.

“This is not normal,” he thought to himself. He led himself to the pedestal and hovered his eyes over the note.

Welcome to the Land of In-Between. It is here where one in a million people get stuck after their time has come. However, this is the first time we’ve had a child in our land, so please forgive us if our residents cause any harm. It is here you will spend the remainder of eternity.

Things are very different here, so allow me to explain some things: 1. You and your fellow habitants are called “Misplacements.”

2. You are able to read the minds of those in the living world (I will explain more on this later when I lead you in training).

3. The living world can be seen but not touched.

A welcoming committee will greet you upon the conclusion of your training. I know you’re eager to begin your journey in this new place, but do be careful because we discover things about the Land of In-Between every day. When you are new, it is always better to do things that we know are safe, which we advise you to do. That’s about it with our introduction. Prepare to be transported to the Training Facility in 3, 2, 1…

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Colophon

Pen & Paper is organized by themes that juxtapose the natural world and civilization to highlight the challenges and beauty of both. Each section begins with a thematic heading and a full-page photograph. As a way to garner more specific submissions, the student magazine staff also organized biweekly-themed contests.

Spreads were designed by the production team.

All copies were typed on a Lenovo ThinkCentre, using Adobe InDesign CC 2015 for Windows 7 Professional. The font used is Book Antiqua and Century Gothic. llustrations were scanned using a Sharp MX-4070 scanner. The layout was designed on the InDesign CC 2015. Pen & Paper was printed on sixty-pound white bond and the cover was printed on 100# stock.

Thank you to Gary Boros of Sign Works Studio for his professionalism, promptness, and precision.

The Unquowa School is Pen & Paper’s home base. It is a progressive, independent, Pre-K-4 through eighth-grade school in Fairfield, Connecticut. There are 161 enrolled students and 44 faculty and staff members. In the upper school alone, there are 88 students. Though a small cohort, these writers, ranging from 5th through 8th grade, make the final production of the magazine possible through their serious dedication and talent. Each year, upper school teachers nominate writers, editors, and artists to join the Pen & Paper staff, where they engage in the creative process of producing a magazine.

This year’s edition of Pen & Paper truly exhibits the leadership and “Unafraid Spirit” fostered within every student.

In 2018/2019, Pen & Paper earned the following awards: Columbia Scholastic Press Association (CSPA) Silver Crown Award 2 Gold Circle Awards American Scholastic Press Association (ASPA) “Most Outstanding Middle School Literary and Art magazine” First Place NCTE’s REALM Award “Superior” 108